


Be My Phoenix Burn

by twisting_vine_x



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Finger Sucking, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: <i>It’s been years since he did this – and never with anyone other than another Hobbit, certainly never with the prince of a dwarven kingdom, heavens – but that drawing in his hand is how Thorin sees him, and it’s enough to make Bilbo feel bold in a way he quite probably never has.</i></p><p>(A/N: First-time fic. What if Thorin's artistic abilities include more than singing and playing the harp? What if he can draw, too? Based on that gorgeous drawing of Bilbo from the beginning of the movie, and set a few days post-movie, once the company has made it to Beorn’s home. Also, credit for the title goes to Alpha Rev.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Phoenix Burn

When Bilbo had agreed to this, it had been more out of surprise than anything else. It had been a long journey from the cliff the eagles had left them on, and when Thorin had come to him, just as Bilbo had been rolling out his bed and planning to curl up for the night, safe within the walls of Beorn’s house, he had been too shocked to say no. Of all the things he might have expected from Thorin, a request to draw him had not been on the list – and now, with the other dwarves asleep and Bilbo sitting as still as he possibly can on a stool by the fireplace, with Thorin sitting across from him, cleaned of the dirt and blood from their travels, with a sketchpad in his lap, and with his lips pressed together and his eyes calmer than Bilbo is used to as he flicks his gaze down the length of Bilbo’s chest –

Well. It’s no wonder that it’s taking everything Bilbo has to stay still. Because before the wargs, and before that moment on the cliff, he’d been able to take the inappropriate thoughts he’d been having about Thorin and keep them pushed firmly away – but with everything that’s happened, and with the way he had thrown himself against that goblin with no thought of his own safety, Bilbo knows very well that whatever he’s feeling for Thorin isn’t going away any time soon. And especially now that he knows what it feels like to be wrapped up in Thorin’s arms, pulled in tight against all that muscle and armour and –

Oh, dear. And now he’s blushing. Well. That’s just – that’s just something he’s going to have to ignore, then. And if Thorin says anything, Bilbo can blame the – the heat of the fireplace. Yes. That’ll do nicely. Because for all that Beorn’s home might be a wee bit intimidating, with its multitude of animals and with the fact that Beorn himself could – in human or bear form – turn Bilbo into jelly, that’s not to say that it isn’t warm and welcoming in its own way, and – yes. That’s what he’ll go with. The warmth from the fire. And, oh, dear, what he would give for one of the other dwarves to wake up, right now, and to come over and join them. Anything to provide him with a distraction from the way he can almost feel Thorin’s eyes sweeping across his skin.

“You seem distraught, little hobbit.”

“Not that little.”

It’s far from the correct response – if anything, he should be protesting against being distraught – but it sneaks out without his permission, and Thorin’s eyes sweep up to meet his for a second, before they slide back down to his chest, pencil scratching soft across paper, and Bilbo has to swallow hard, suddenly.

“I apologize. No, you’re not.”

And that, apparently, is all Thorin has to say on the subject, no hint of his thoughts in the rough rumble of his voice, and Bilbo takes a deep and steadying breath, feels his skin flush even hotter than before as Thorin’s gaze slides up to his neck, and – heavens, this is dangerous. This, right here, is going to end in disaster unless Bilbo gets himself together, and he very deliberately concentrates on trying not to squirm, does his best to find something to focus on that isn’t the weight of that gaze. Does his best to choose a spot over Thorin’s shoulder and just keep his eyes fixed there, because for all that Thorin is the one who requested this moment – the one who asked Bilbo to join him, here, by the fireplace, while the rest of the world sleeps around them – he’s still the exiled prince of an ancient dwarven race, and Bilbo has no business thinking any of the things he’s thinking right now.

It’s a thought that cools his ardour, at least a bit, and Bilbo breathes through the ache and tries to relax into the moment, feels the lines of his body slowly become a little less tense, lets the warmth and silence of the room draw him in until everything seems dream-like, and he’s not sure how much time passes with, but there’s no sound save for the crackle of the fire and the soft movement of Thorin’s pen, and Bilbo actually jumps when Thorin climbs to his feet and holds out the drawing.

“Here.”

His voice is gruff, as always, Thorin moving to stand in front of him as Bilbo reaches out to take the paper, and Bilbo suddenly can’t breathe because – that’s not him. It can’t be. He can’t stop staring, and something inside him is pulling too tight, because – what he’s got in front of him is gorgeous. Soft lines, warm eyes, gently curved lips, tiniest hint of a smile. And that’s not – he isn’t – 

“You are displeased?”

For a second, all Bilbo can do is gape. Then, Thorin’s words register, and he looks up to find Thorin watching him, his expression unreadable, and Bilbo has to swallow hard before he can speak.

“That’s not – I don’t look like that.”

“You do to me.”

And, oh, heavens. This is why this was dangerous. Because Thorin is looking at him in a way that he has no business doing, a way that Bilbo is pretty sure he’s not misinterpreting, and it’s late and dark and Bilbo’s holding a drawing that makes him feel dangerously warm inside, and – he’s staring right back. Thorin’s watching him, much too close, not saying a word, and Bilbo should stop staring, should be moving away – should be able to think, should be gathering his thoughts over the race of his heart, the flush on his skin, the way he thinks he can see a hint of uncertainty at the edges of Thorin’s features – and then Thorin’s hand slides up to rest heavy across his collarbone, and Bilbo closes his eyes, breathes through the helpless wash of heat.

“Well, Master Baggins?”

And, oh, dear. That low rumble is going to be the death of him yet. And when Bilbo gets his eyes open, finds that Thorin is still watching him, there’s no way he can say no. It’s been years since he did this – and never with anyone other than another Hobbit, certainly never with the prince of a dwarven kingdom, heavens – but that drawing in his hand is how Thorin sees him, and it’s enough to make Bilbo feel bold in a way he quite probably never has, makes him glance around the room and then tug on Thorin’s hand.

“Storage room.”

Something inside him flashes hot and fierce at the way Thorin’s mouth drops open, but he seems to recover himself quickly, because he follows Bilbo’s lead when he tugs on Thorin’s hand, and Bilbo gets them into the empty back room, stacked to the ceiling with barrels and bags, barely sets the drawing carefully to the side and gets the door closed before Thorin’s got him backed up against the wall, his hands – heavens, those are big hands – bracketing each one of Bilbo’s hips, and his mouth hot against the side of Bilbo’s neck.

“We must be quiet. The others cannot –”

“Well, you’d best kiss me, then.”

He flushes with his own words, doesn’t know where this is coming from, but it seems to do the trick, because Thorin’s all but lifting him off the floor, now, kissing him like he’s trying to suck the air clean out of Bilbo’s lungs, and Bilbo groans at the feel of that beard, scratchy across his skin – and then he actually is off the floor, and his legs go around Thorin like they belong there, leaving them pressed together at mouth and groin, and all Bilbo can do is hold on and grind down until Thorin shudders and breaks away to press his mouth back against Bilbo’s neck, and – somewhere, it registers that the noise that comes out of Thorin’s mouth isn’t completely happy, and Bilbo feels the realization like a dash of cold water, barely manages to not squirm free and get his feet back on the floor.

“You’re hurt.”

“It is of no –”

“Put me down.”

Thorin is still against him for a moment, and then Bilbo slides back to the ground, his feet making contact with the cool floor, and Thorin is – not quite looking at him, moving back to put some space between them, and Bilbo catches hold of his hand, keeps him in place until Thorin looks at him again. There’s something hesitant there, and Bilbo can only imagine – for someone as proud as Thorin, who likes to come across as indestructible – the thought has barely passed his mind before Bilbo finds himself tugging on Thorin’s hand again, and Thorin lets himself be led until they’ve been turned around and he’s the one pressed up against the wall, his eyes blow wide and his mouth hanging slightly open as he stares down at Bilbo, and – heavens. Bilbo has to wet his lips and take a steadying breath before he can speak, his insides flaring hot with the way Thorin’s looking at him.

“If we’re doing this, we’re not hurting you.”

His voice sounds, even to his own ears, rather shaky, because _gods_ , he wants this, but only if Thorin isn’t going to be stubborn – only if Thorin knows enough to not injure himself worse – and then Thorin nods, his large hands sliding down to tighten around Bilbo’s hips again, and Bilbo feels a new wave of heat flash through him, leans up to press his mouth against Thorin’s flushed cheek, his lips close to Thorin’s ear and Thorin’s breath coming hot and fast against his skin.

“You can pick me up and shove me against a wall later.”

Thorin’s groan is a low rumble against him, his fingers going painfully tight against Bilbo’s hips, and Bilbo has to kiss him again, can’t not. Wants that mouth against his own, wants the beard burn, wants that sharp taste of pipeweed and ale – barely realizes what he’s doing until his hand is already in between them, sliding down the cool length of Thorin’s armour and coming to rest above the hard press at the front of his trousers. It’s enough to make Bilbo’s flush with his own boldness, but Thorin’s strung tight like he’s trying to keep from thrusting forward, and Bilbo breaks the kiss to look down between them, watches his own fingers fumble with the fastenings of Thorin’s trousers. Feels his skin heat even further with the awareness that Thorin is watching, too, and then Thorin’s cock is in his hand, long and hot and not so very different from a hobbit’s, and Thorin is – practically shaking. Trembling against him, trying to stay still against the wall, and Bilbo breathes through a new wave of heat as he raises his hand again, dragging his own tongue across it and not quite meeting Thorin’s eyes until Thorin grabs hold of him and sucks, hard, on his fingers, teeth and lips everywhere, and Bilbo would be embarrassed by his own groan if not for the way that Thorin’s practically panting against his damp skin. Licking and sucking his way across Bilbo’s palm and fingers, until Bilbo pulls away and gets his hand down between them and around Thorin’s cock again, and Thorin slumps against him, his hands tightening on Bilbo’s hips and his head falling forward until his face is pressed into Bilbo’s neck.

“Yes.”

The sound and feel of his voice, right against his neck, sends a jolt straight through Bilbo, and he presses himself as close as he can while still leaving space for his hand to move, squirming at the feeling of Thorin panting against his skin, and – gods. There’s never been anything, anyone, like this – he’s never had cold armour pressed hard and sharp against him while a prince comes apart under the touch of his hand – and Bilbo can feel his own arousal spiralling higher and higher inside him. Can’t do anything but hold Thorin close and slide his fingers and palm along the length of him, watch for the motions that make him shiver and grunt, stroke him fast and hard as the dampness of his palm slicks the hot skin underneath his hand, until Thorin bucks forward, hard, with a deep groan, wet warmth spreading out across Bilbo’s hand, and Thorin’s fingers are pressed so tight against Bilbo’s hips there are sure to be marks there tomorrow. 

It’s a thought that lances fire through him, and between the bite of pain and the feel of Thorin’s slick wetness all over his fingers, Bilbo can barely breathe anymore, closes his eyes and strokes Thorin through it, and by the time Thorin goes still against him, Bilbo’s breath is almost as ragged as Thorin’s, everything gone shaky and too hot inside him. He barely has time to fight for air, though, before Thorin’s shifting against him, and Bilbo only notices he’s been turned around when he’s already there, Thorin pressing him back against the wall with hands that seem to be less than steady. Presses him there and just looks at him for a long moment, his skin flushed dark red and his gaze heated enough to make Bilbo tremble, and then Thorin’s hands go to his trousers, and a large hand slides inside to wrap around his cock, freeing it from behind the damp material. It’s a sudden explosion of heat and sensation, the roughness of Thorin’s palm nearly wrenching Bilbo’s legs out from under him – and then Thorin’s sinking to his knees on the grimy floor, and Bilbo can’t stop a helpless sound, feels it catch in his throat, feels his eyes go wide. Knows he should be protesting – Thorin’s a prince, and gods, he’s still injured, he shouldn’t be – but his voice cracks when Thorin glares up at him, and his large hands pin Bilbo’s hips in place against the wall.

“I am not yet so injured that I cannot do this.”

Whatever protesting noise Bilbo might have made is drowned out on a gasp when Thorin’s mouth goes around him, his lungs seizing tight in his chest and his hips jolting, barely kept in place by Thorin’s hands, and Bilbo – can’t breathe. Everything’s too much, Thorin’s mouth hot and wet and perfect around him, and Bilbo only realizes he’s clutching at Thorin’s hair when Thorin grunts out an approving sound and takes him in even deeper, and Bilbo feels his mind flash along the edges, clings to Thorin’s hair and hears himself making noises he didn’t know he could make. Can do nothing but cling to Thorin and gasp for air until one of Thorin’s hands slides from his lip to circle around the base of his cock, his rough palm stroking along him as Thorin’s mouth pulls tighter around him, and Bilbo hits that precipice so hard it hurts, flying over the edge and crashing down into white heat, everything going shaky and blurry and _too much_ as his cock jerks in Thorin’s mouth and his mind washes blank. He only realize he’s sliding down the wall when Thorin’s already catching him and keeping him in place, and awareness comes back to him, gradually, every muscle in his body turned to warm liquid, until he realizes that Thorin’s holding him close and playing with his hair while Bilbo pants against his neck, his fingers digging into Thorin’s back and his chest heaving against Thorin’s armour.

“Alright, Master Hobbit?”

The words sound fuzzy in his ears, and Bilbo closes his eyes, lets Thorin hold him up until he thinks his own legs can hold him again. It’s only then that he manages a nod, weak, against Thorin’s shoulder, and then he still just keeps holding on as Thorin tidies them up as best he can, tucking them both into their trousers and fastening up buttons and laces again. There’s nothing to be done about the stains on their clothing, and Bilbo’s not sure when they’ll next have access to some kind of bathing facilities, but when Thorin pulls back to stare at him, Bilbo can’t even care. Can only stare back, trying to figure out what he’s seeing in Thorin’s expression. Swallows hard, concentrates on the fact that Thorin’s fingers are still threaded through his hair, and reminds himself that he’s part Took, dammit, and that nothing has ever compared to what’s just happened here. 

“So, um. We can do that again, right?”

A little more desperation sneaks into his voice than he’d been aiming for, but before he can even bite his lip, the lines on Thorin’s face visibly soften, something warm spreading across his eyes, and then Bilbo’s being kissed again, gentle and slow and – gods, he could get used to this. Could get used to Thorin holding him like this, could get used to Thorin staring at him like he’s something precious, like he's someone who’s worth being stared at. Then, Thorin pulls away just far enough to pick up his drawing from the barrel Bilbo had set in on, and Bilbo swallows hard as he takes it, feels his chest pull tight in a way that doesn’t feel completely uncomfortable, because Thorin’s smiling at him, now, and god, Bilbo could get used to being on the receiving end of that smile, too.

“Come along, Master Hobbit. And feel free to lay your sleeping bag out beside mine.”

That tension inside his chest pulls a little bit tighter, and Bilbo takes a deep and steadying breath as he manages a shaky smile in return, and then he’s following Thorin out of the storage room, trying to breathe through the butterflies that seem to have taken up residence in his stomach, and carefully holding tight to the beautiful drawing in his hand.


End file.
